


Under The Summer Sun

by LizzieCarlton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Gardens & Gardening, Greg's a sexy gardener, M/M, Masturbation, Teen Mycroft, YOUNG LESTRADE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieCarlton/pseuds/LizzieCarlton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picking up a spade, Gregory began to dig in the vegetable patch, turning over the earth with quick, sure movements. After a short while he bent over and began to rummage in the soil. Mycroft’s mouth fell slightly open, and he sat bolt upright as the man stuck his arse in the air. The denim of his jeans stretched tightly across his shapely bum, and Mycroft instantly felt his trousers tighten. He winced and allowed his book to fall into his lap, eyes glued to the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration suddenly struck! Please enjoy...

Mycroft Holmes hated summer. Summer meant discomfort. It meant sweat; it meant flies; it meant enforced family picnics in the sun when he would rather be inside with a book. If he’d had a choice in the matter, he would have stayed at university and invested in an air conditioning unit for his small Oxford flat.  But he was cursed with over-protective parents and an annoying baby brother who had, between them, insisted on his return over the holidays.

He arrived on a sweltering Sunday afternoon in mid-June, having delayed his departure from University for as long as he could get away with. The family home was, fortunately, well suited to heat. The large, high ceilinged rooms with their heavy curtains kept the sun at bay, and Mycroft took to lingering in shadowed corners, fearing freckles. It was his brother Sherlock’s screeching which drew him to the window one afternoon and it was then that he first saw the gardener.

Sherlock was toppling through the flowerbeds which surrounded the vast expanse of lawn. He was dressed in what looked suspiciously like Mycroft’s favourite shirt, torn and muddied, and a pair of old shorts. His left eye was covered with a black patch and he held a wooden sword in his right hand. The boy seemed engaged in an imaginary battle and Mummy’s prize roses were suffering terribly because of it. Mycroft opened the window and leaned out, ready to scold him.

‘Oi!’

A voice that was not his own gave him pause and he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties was jogging across the lawn towards Sherlock. The man was half naked. Mycroft squinted into the light and leaned out further, forgetting all about Mummy’s roses. The man was dressed in only a pair of tight, dirty jeans. He was sporting a sun tan, and the skin of his tightly muscled chest shone a deep, golden brown. His shirt lay forgotten by the hedge a few feet away, alongside a pair of shears. Mycroft gulped. So this was the new gardener.

The man scooped Sherlock up, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifted him from the flowerbed and set him back down on the grass. He gave the boy a gentle push, and Sherlock ran off with one last, resounding battle cry. Mycroft watched as the gardener paused to examine the damage. The man ran a hand through his perfectly tousled chestnut hair, and looked up. Their eyes locked for a split second. Swearing, Mycroft pulled back and slammed the window closed, falling onto the floor beneath the ledge.

There he remained for several long minutes, breathing heavily, as if he had been caught in the most compromising of positions. Which it certainly felt like he had. Once he had recovered his senses, he got to his feet with a groan. He was desperately in need of a very long shower.

Over dinner that evening, Mycroft made a few subtle enquiries. The gardener, it transpired, was the grandson of their housekeeper. The young man had been looking for work over the summer, and Mrs Turner had recommended him so vehemently that Mummy had been too embarrassed to refuse.

‘It’s of no consequence,’ Mycroft’s father shrugged the matter off after Mycroft’s third attempt to dig for more information. The man stabbed a potato in obvious irritation. ‘He gets the job done.’

Mummy nodded in agreement. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘Gregory’s nice enough. Although he’s made a terrible mess of my roses.’

At the other side of the table, Sherlock turned red and choked on a boiled potato.

Mycroft shot the boy a disapproving glare while their mother fussed over him with a napkin. He returned to his own meal, helping himself to more wine, and the subject was happily forgotten. Over dessert, he indulged in a few quiet fantasies, pushing the crème caramel around his bowl with disinterest.

‘Why aren’t you eating, fatty?’ Sherlock gloated, leaning over the table in order to dip his own spoon into the mess.

Mycroft pushed the bowl towards the boy and stood up shakily. ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered.

‘Where are you going?’ his father asked with a frown.

‘Shower,’ Mycroft mumbled, leaving the room.

‘That’s strange,’ he heard Mummy muse behind him. ‘I’m sure he just had one.’

 

The following day, after applying liberal amounts of suncream, Mycroft ventured nervously outside. Clutching a book to his chest, he kept to the shadows as he approached the large oak tree in the far corner of the garden. He settled down with his back to the trunk, and stretched his legs out in the shaded grass. From where he sat, he had a good view of the vegetable patch, and he knew for a fact that Mrs Turner was planning a leek and potato soup for lunch.

He opened his book and pulled a pair of sunglasses from his top pocket. Despite the heat, he had to admit, the day was indeed pleasant. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves of the tree above him and the sound of birds chirping drifted through the air. He had just begun to relax when Sherlock jumped from a branch above him.

‘Fuck,’ he shouted, scrambling sideways in a panic, his book falling to the ground.

‘You swore,’ Sherlock squealed in evident delight. ‘I’ll tell Mummy.’

‘No, you won’t.’ Mycroft protested, recovering some vestige of dignity. ‘Or else _I_ shall tell Mummy what _really_ happened to the roses.’

Sherlock crossed his arms. ‘Fuck,’ he said, evidently savouring the word, before sliding down to sit with Mycroft on the grass. ‘Are you being a spy?’ he asked.

‘What?’ Mycroft hissed.

‘You look like a spy,’ Sherlock told him thoughtfully. ‘Is it a game? What are you doing?’

‘Reading,’ Mycroft snapped, though he hastily removed his sunglasses. ‘Go away.’

He endured several minutes of insults before Sherlock complied, and by then, the gardener had arrived. Mycroft turned to his little brother in something of a panic at the sight of the man, desperate to appear occupied. He laughed along with Sherlock’s taunts and fussed with his own hair, not quite daring to even glance at the man he had arrived to watch.

Deciding he was being made fun of, Sherlock stormed off in a huff, leaving him alone on the ground. The gardener looked over as Sherlock emerged from the shade, and waved at them. Mycroft waved back and then, deciding he had looked too camp, rapidly turned scarlet and buried his nose in his book. It was several minutes before he dared to look up again. The man had his back to him, and was, sadly, sporting a shirt.

Picking up a spade, Gregory began to dig in the vegetable patch, turning over the earth with quick, sure movements. After a short while he bent over and began to rummage in the soil. Mycroft’s mouth fell slightly open, and he sat bolt upright as the man stuck his arse in the air. The denim of his jeans stretched tightly across his shapely bum, and Mycroft instantly felt his trousers tighten. He winced and allowed his book to fall into his lap, eyes glued to the man.

Before he was able to look away, Gregory twisted his neck and looked back at him from behind his own legs. He smirked at the sight of Mycroft staring and then, standing up, winked. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft stumbles into uncharted territoy. Sherlock battles a crocodile.

Mycroft kept his distance after the winking incident. He was no stranger to having crushes on men. Older, half-naked men were particularly problematic. But for his attentions to be noticed, acknowledged even... well, that was new territory. In all honesty, he was entirely too embarrassed to do anything more about it.

And so he withdrew into the house once more, bemoaning the three ginger freckles which had blossomed on his face after that morning under the oak tree. Several days passed in which he did little other than drink tea, read books and indulge in the occasional frantic wank. Once the monotony became too great, he began to learn Spanish.

He was sat on the kitchen table one morning, listening to Mrs Turner gossiping (as he often did when he could find nobody else to talk to) when the man he had been so carefully avoiding walked right on in. Gregory clomped through the kitchen door in heavy boots, leaving a trail of muddy footprints and depositing a basket of freshly dug carrots on the countertop.

Sinking back against the wall, Mycroft became intensely aware of his own slightly dishevelled state. He wasn’t yet out of his pyjamas. As the gardener turned to leave again, he noticed Mycroft’s presence and smiled broadly.

‘Morning,’ he greeted him, eyes roaming over his striped attire.

‘Hello,’ Mycroft mumbled weakly. It was shaping up to be a particularly hot day and Gregory had removed his shirt again. He didn’t quite know where to look.

‘Young man!’ Mrs Turner squealed, rather destroying the moment. Mycroft wasn’t sure whether or not to be thankful.  The elderly housekeeper poked her grandson in the chest and pointed at the trail of muddy footprints. ‘Clean that up, Gregory.’

‘Sorry, Nan,’ the man smirked, ruefully accepting the wet cloth he was handed. He waited until his grandmother’s back was turned and then winked at Mycroft once more.

Mycroft felt as if he might melt. The urge to flee the room was, horrifyingly, overcome by the need to remain and watch Gregory roam the floor on his hands and knees. _On his hands and knees._ Biting his lip, Mycroft looked determinedly out of the window, determined not to be caught staring again.

He was so busy not looking that he entirely missed the man speaking to him. And then Gregory was standing up and waving a hand in his face, grinning broadly once more.

‘Hey,’ he said, his voice low and gravelly.

‘Hi,’ Mycroft whispered, and then cleared his throat. His hand instantly went to his hair to push that one stubborn curl back from his forehead.

‘I was just asking if you’ve ever been fishing?’ Greg repeated, he leaned back on the opposite work surface. ‘Nan said you could do to get out of the house more.’

‘Gregory!’ Mrs Turner batted him with the wet washcloth. ‘I said no such thing.’

‘Of course,’ Greg chuckled, ducking the cloth. He looked back at Mycroft. ‘So do you want to go fishing?’

‘Of course he doesn’t,’ Mrs Turner laughed, slightly hysterically, ushering the man towards the door.

‘Actually,’ Mycroft blurted out. He craned his neck to get a better look at the man over her shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

‘There see,’ Greg pointed at him with evident pleasure. He grabbed hold of the door frame in order to keep himself in hearing distance. ‘He does.’

‘Maybe,’ Mycroft clarified, already wondering if it was too late to back track.

‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning,’ Gregory told him, raising his voice as Mrs Turner continued to push him from the room. ‘It’s my day off. Be ready at eight, Mycroft.’

The door slammed behind him and Mrs Turner leaned back against it, closing her eyes in obvious exasperation.

‘I am sorry, Mr Holmes,’ she had turned a delicate shade of pink. She began fussing with a tea towel, nervously straightening it out and then folding it again. ‘He’s a smart boy but he doesn’t have the best manners. You don’t have to go.’

Mycroft shook his head weakly, his heart beating fit to burst. ‘No,’ he said determinedly. ‘I will.’

...

After his encounter with Gregory the Sexy Gardener, Mycroft spent the majority of the day in the bathroom. Only once he had thoroughly exhausted every erotic possibility he could imagine, did the horror of what he had agreed to finally set in. Slumped behind the locked door, he wearily fastened his belt buckle and debated the best way to call an end to the fishing trip.

Despite her obvious embarrassment at Gregory’s brash behaviour, he knew Mrs Turner would be upset if he turned her grandson down at the last minute. Perhaps he could pretend to be ill, he mused, standing up and peering in the mirror. After spending the hottest days of the year cooped up indoors, he was certainly abnormally pale. He shuddered at the thought of all the freckles that a day in the sun might bring.

Sighing, he mentally rummaged through his wardrobe. Nothing he owned proved suitable for a fishing trip. He didn’t even know _how_ to fish. Perhaps Gregory could do the fishing and he could watch from an appropriate distance. He imagined the man reclined on the sandy bank of the river, shirtless, with his jeans rolled up to his knees. A fishing rod was held haphazardly between his legs. In his mind’s eye Gregory dabbled his bare feet in the water and crossed his arms behind his head, staring up into the sky.

With a groan, he began to undo his belt buckle again. There was no way out, he decided, he would _have_ to go.

He was interrupted by a loud banging on the door, as Sherlock catapulted himself repeatedly against the other side.

‘Mycroft,’ he shouted, ‘come out now. I need to use the bathtub.’

Obliging with a vague sense of relief, Mycroft straightened his clothes and unlocked the door. As soon as he did so, it flew open and Sherlock barrelled past. The boy was brandishing a butter knife in one hand and a toy crocodile in the other. He was wearing his eye patch again, and a skull and crossbones had been daubed onto his shirt with black paint.

‘Go away,’ he shouted, turning on the taps and throwing the toy crocodile into the tub. ‘I’m busy.’

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. The air in the house was thick with an oppressive heat, which seeped in through every open window. Sticking to the shadows, Mycroft edged back to his bedroom.

Mrs Turner had opened the blinds, allowing sunlight to flood each corner of his sanctuary. Tutting, he pulled them closed again before turning to his wardrobe. He opened the door and ran his hand down the row of expertly tailored bespoke suits.

What on Earth was he going to wear?

**Author's Note:**

> Find my Tumblr **[here.](http://drabblinginmystrade.tumblr.com)**  
>  Send me a prompt if you fancy!


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